


Wolf Men

by jubah



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 19:30:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17473622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jubah/pseuds/jubah
Summary: Niënor goes visit her kin and finds a wolf-man on the way.A self-indulgent Little Red Riding Hood AU thing ;)





	Wolf Men

**Author's Note:**

> (Heads up: this doesn’t fit within the canon timeline)

 “Nonsense! How shall you find the Hidden Kingdom with no guide or guard-”

 “- My brother did so when he was but a child!” 

“Gethron and Grithnir went with him then, and you plan on going alone! I forb-” Morwen was interrupted by hacking coughs, her words sounding weak in a way she had never been. Niënor felt close to tears, and then raised her voice, turning sadness into anger. 

“Men so old that one of them could not bear the journey back, even aided by elvish soldiers! Morwen, I shall go for you, whom I love more than anyone in this world, and I shall return with whatever aid I can.” _Unlike Túrin my brother, who has all but deserted us_ hung in the air, unsaid.

Morwen and Niënor hardly ever argued, or saw any need to. This time, however, she would not back down. Morwen’s illness scared her more than any rider in the woods, and the perceived injustice of her mother’s lack of faith spurred her on. Into Doriath she would go, and face those who had deserted them, and her courage at undertaking such a journey alone would put them all to shame. She would bring her mother to safety, or at very last, she’d bring back what elvish medicine and provisions she could carry.

Morwen’s eyes were bitter and hard, but Niënor saw the fear behind them, and stood as tall as she could. Another fit of coughing, more violent, disrupted their staring contest. Niënor ran to the pot where herbs were boiling and poured some of the water in a mug, handing it carefully to Morwen.

Niënor was proud, but more than anything, she loved her mother. She would go, with Morwen’s blessing or not.

 

* * *

 

Daylight promised riders, and nighttime promised orcs. She left at sunset, considering that she’d rather die than become a thrall.

Her mother was proud, but also practical, and once it had become clear that Nienor would not be restrained, Morwen started helping her plan. Thus they had spent a whole day making bread that Nienor could take with her. It all went into a small, round wicker basket that closed like a bag. Besides that, Morwen gave her a skin of wine and another for water, and a warm woolen cloak she took from a trunk in her bedroom. Niënor was surprised to see they still had clothes in the house left untouched - smuggling fabric was not something Aerin could easily do, and thus they were always in need of it. This cloak was simple, but grand: dyed a deep red and embroidered at the hem and the hood with orange and pink and blue. The colors of the Hadorian device, she knew. She loved the device: it reminded her of the dawn. The cloak must have belonged to Húrin, she realized, feeling strange. But the warm cloak would serve her well in the chill of spring, and she thought Morwen’s expression softened when she tried it on, which made her blush.

The last thing they did was to sit down and study another relic taken from that otherwise forgotten trunk in her mother’s room: a large map of Dor-Lómin and the neighboring areas, and its mountains and plains. Among the small trees and artful peaks, the distance didn’t even seem that great. Taking comfort in that, she committed the map to memory. 

And then she had departed. The moon, almost full, allowed her some light to help her through the treacherously steep pass across over the Ered Wethrin. With the cutting wind hissing about, she went slowly, and fear came upon her so fiercely once she heard distant howling and strange sounds echoing on the walls of the narrow passageway that she forgot all else - regret, pride, courage - and soldiered on, nibbling on some of the bread she had brought as she went, not stopping unless to refill her skin by the timid Glithui on her right. The sunrise was a great relief, and gave her courage to sit down and sleep a dreamless sleep. The sun was high in the sky when she opened her eyes again, her muscles hard and aching from discomfort. Nonetheless, she moved on, hoping to reach the other side at least before nightfall. -

That had not gone as planned, and it was well into the afternoon again by the time she came to the plains. And plains they were, and Niënor felt fear creeping in again when she realized just how vulnerable she would be once she left the foot of the mountain. That sobering thought in mind, she drank some wine and ate, and laid herself down to sleep once more, on the soft grass behind a tall angled rock that shielded her from the wind.

She didn’t remember dreaming, but it must have been something lovely, for she woke with renewed hope when the sun shone once more on her face. She crossed the Teiglin as soon as she came upon an old, decaying bridge, feeling safer with the running water between her and the plains that went straight into the Fens of Serech, according to Morwen’s map. By the tenth stop, she was sweating from the urgent pace and aching all over, despite her being quite hardy. Niënor knew she’d better part from the Teiglin at some point to enter the woods, which would provide better cover, but she could not bring herself to do so. She was not as confident in her directions anymore. Could she have passed the Malduin already? How big a river was it, anyway? Would she find another bridge for crossing?

The space under a solid stone bridge proved to be excellent and much-needed shelter for the night. On the next day, having risen with the sun, she crossed it, and finally saw some trees in the distance.

 

* * *

 

She thought more trees would bring a sense of security - and it did, in a way. But now, instead of worrying about orcs, she was worried about other things. Wolves. Traps. Outlaws.

The sun was setting and Niënor knew she’d better rest and think more carefully of what she was going to do next. She appraised the old, strong-looking trees, not woods quite yet but not sparse either, and decided to sleep in the branches of one. Safer, and she was not so unused to doing so: she had naped like that sometimes, when she was much younger. For a moment there was pleasant, childish anticipation; but as she prepared to climb, the snapping of a branch nearby broke her concentration and reminded her that woods were not safe. Not ever.

A shiver went down her spine and she looked around, suddenly anxious. The light of the sunset, which made the leaves overhead look nearly golden, also cast long shadows on the ground, and a feeling grew in her gut with the surety born out of years of deep-rooted, cultivated vigilance: _I am being watched._

Her heart racing, she turned to run - and then muffled a scream with her own two hands when a shadow jumped out of a tree and blocked her path. She stumbled back, but the stranger reached out and held her arm fast, and she didn’t fall. She wrenched away but didn’t try to run, knowing he’d grab her again. Her heart was like a hammer in her chest.

His face was hidden by a hooded cloak, but she could see the glimmer of chainmail under his dirty, ragged tunic, and the shape of a sword on his belt. They stood like that, in deafening silence, for what seemed like an eternity, at a loss for words. When he finally spoke, his voice was very low.

“Are you lost?” She didn’t reply. He tried again, “Who are you?”

Niënor’s mind raced for a good answer, but her mouth was quicker, as usual. “I would tell you my name if you told me yours.”

Silence fell upon them again.  She waited for his reply, but he gave her none, and just pulled his hood back.

Niënor had never seen a man like him before. She had grown up around old servants full of coughs and phlegm, bad backs and bad bones and words that didn’t always make sense. Every winter at least one of them would pass away, almost like an omen. _Or like a spring tradition._ The only young men she had ever seen were enemy riders when they ventured too close, their forms hidden under the furs and hunting leather, and in her mind they had cruel eyes like birds of prey.

This man’s eyes were bright in the yellow light of the sunset, and so intense she almost looked away, but they were not cruel. He stood tall and somehow lordly; leaves and sticks caught in his hair seemed almost like ornaments. A distant memory of elven messengers caught her unaware, but it could not be, for this man had hair on his face. Did elves have beards? She didn’t know. Suddenly aware of how little she knew, she felt smaller.

But she was not small. She was a big girl, Niënor, everyone had always told her - and she stood almost as tall as him, despite her age. She glared back.

 “It’s dangerous here,” he finally said.

 “Orcs don’t venture near the water,” Niënor recited.

 “Other things do.”

 “I have killed wolves before,” she lied.

 “I meant wolf-men.”

 “Such as yourself?”

Again, that long pause before speaking. “I am a hunter.”

 “Forgive me for not believing you, unless you hunt for a different sort of prey than the usual,” she said, pointedly eyeing his sword, and regretting it almost immediately. Why was she so impulsive?

Thankfully, he just ignored her again. “Where are you going?”

 “Why would you know?” She replied ferociously.

He licked his lips and looked away. He looked like a liar, but also not, and her fear had receded enough that her thoughts started to run clearer. She knew the houses of the Haladin were not so far, and she had kin there. Her mother did not think much of them, but they would surely house and help her, and they lived so close to the Hidden Kingdom that they must know one of its passageways. Maybe that was how Túrin had gotten there in the first place, maybe their Brethilian kin had helped him in somehow. She doubted Gethron had known the way into Doriath by himself, and Túrin had been naught but a child then.

She was almost startled when he spoke again. “You have reason to doubt me, and I would not tell you any more than what is needed. But indeed I hunt in these woods, and if you told me your destination, I might be able to point you towards a safer way, perhaps even a shortcut.”

 “I am going to visit my grandmother, who lives with the Haladin!” she thrust out the basket of provisions from under her cloak and looked into his eyes, daring him to not believe her. “My mother thinks it safer if I stay there.” But he nodded curtly and murmured agreement, surprising her. Then he turned to walk and she stayed there, stunned for a moment, until he looked back and made for her to follow.

She did.

 

* * *

  

They didn’t speak.

Sometimes there was a tension in the air - something in his shoulders or in the way he landed his steps - that had her expecting him to turn back and say _something._ But he never did, and the moment passed, until it arrived again.

Night fell and the moon rose, full at last, and the woods were dark, but his steps were as sure as ever as they waded into the woods. _I’m mad_ , she thought more than once, _I’m following this armed stranger, this outlaw; I no longer know where I am and I shall become a thrall and die and I shall never see Morwen again or my brother and Morwen shall die too, alone, in that haunted house_ \- and she meant to stop and ask, and to make him talk, and to steal his sword and run… But she didn’t.

Whenever she stumbled behind him, he reached back on instinct. The first two times she slapped his hand away. The third time, she reached out at the same time he did. The fifth time, she just held onto his hand and didn’t let go, and he only hesitated for a second before he resumed walking. The darkness was filled with sounds, alien and suggestive - it almost reminded her of her own house, full of ghosts when she’d wake up as good as blind in the dark of the night. The warmth and weight of that hand on hers had become more of a comfort than the heavy cloak around her shoulders - and from the way his fingers grasped hers, she almost wondered if it might be the same for him. They would be forests ghosts too, if it weren’t for their solid hands clasped together. _I must be more afraid than I thought._

They trudged on.

It was a long time when he finally stopped - how many hours, she could not say. It was cold and dark, and Niënor had no idea which way was north or south. He moved away, motioning for her to stay put, and stopped at a tree. She saw the glimmer of a knife being unsheathed, and a shiver went down her body, but he simply marked the tree and came back to her. His hands stayed under his own cloak this time. Her left hand itched, cold, as if mourning, too.

 “You should rest here,” he rasped, like he hadn’t used his voice in years, like they hadn’t exchanged barbed words just before sunset, “and take up again when dawn comes. When you wake, go to that tree and you’ll see an overgrown trail. Just follow from there, and you shall find your kin’s people.”

Indeed they were at a spot where the canopies were less dense and moonlight, more abundant. It shone now in his eyes and made him look pale and strange. She wondered how _she_ looked, if her breath was also coming out in puffs, her hair disheveled as his, her eyes glistening too... A few hours ago she would have done anything to get him to leave her; now she was not so sure anymore. Another thing the men in her life had in common was that they were always moving ahead: her father had left even before she was born, and so had her brother. The men in the household left one by one, like dead leaves falling from the tree, and even the riders left after hours of agonizing, hawk-like watch. And though she was not a man, she had left Morwen just as well. For a moment she regretted it so much her heart hurt, her throat feeling tight. She longed for Morwen’s arms, like she was a child again.

He mumbled a farewell and turned to leave, the unlikely hunter, and she surprised both of them by reaching for his arm and stopping him.

 “Stay.”

No reaction. 

She blushed.

 “It’s dawn soon, you said - what prey would you possibly catch at this time? Stay and keep me company - I…” Her hand brushed the basket of bread, the wine skin. “I’ll give you my provisions. If I am as close to my kin as you say I am,” She said, attempting to turn her request into a dare, “I shall have no more need of it come morning.”

She thought he had opened his mouth - and yet no reply came for what seemed like an eternity, until he nodded. But he didn’t move. Her anxiety mixed with some indignation - a fleeting thought, _must she do all the work_? She heard the stories - vague like everything else - about these men in the woods, these dangerous creatures, worse than orcs, greedy and brutish and dangerous, eager. And yet when she put her hand on his arm it felt as if he were the uncertain maiden and she were the woodsman. She opened her mouth to say something impetuous, but stopped. The moonlight was in his eyes again.

It was her turn to hesitate. Her mind was strangely blank, and her body moved slowly. Putting the basket and the skins down, she removed her cloak and spread it on the grass. He watched.

 “Should I lay my sword between us?”

Would wonders never cease? That had been the most puzzling thing to happen the whole day, and that was saying a lot. _Whatever would he do that for_?

 “Whatever would you do that for?”

Another pause, but she knew he wouldn’t answer. Instead he unbuckled his sword belt and put it aside, next to her basket. She approached him and undid the clasp of his cloak for him, hands barely trembling. It fell around their feet.

Overhead, the clouds moved. The wind caught a bit of skin under her skirts. She shivered.

She felt him shiver as well.  

 

* * *

 

She woke before he did, and was surprised to find his arm slung over her. It was cold in the morning and though they had piled some of their clothes over last night, it wasn’t enough. That sense of familiarity must have been how she was able to sleep well despite everything: she and Morwen would sleep on the same bed often, snuggling close for warmth.

Not that they had fallen asleep as fast as that. They had laid down next to each other afterwards, catching up their breath and looking at the stars. The silence around them had been heavy with things she wanted to say, as if the words, denied the consequence of being spoken, escaped the boiling chaos in her head like vapor escaping the kettle, bearing mass, but not meaning. _I have never had a friend_ , she had wanted to say, but shut her lips tightly like she had learned from her mother. Finally, the words had come out as tears instead. He must have noticed somehow, because then his hand was in her hair, soothing and tender, and in that moment she felt the weight of his silence as heavy and delicate as hers. _What is your name_? she thought she had asked, but he did not answer.

Now she contemplated his face under the sunlight, and the marked tree beyond. He woke with a confused expression, then laid eyes on her and blushed. A little snicker burst from her lips before she could help herself; he turned to get his canteen and hide from her.

 “I didn’t mean to laugh. I just never expected an outlaw to be as gentle as you.”

 “I told you I am a hunter.”

 “Me too, and the better one, for I have captured a wolf-man tonight.”

She thought he had smiled, but it was hard to be sure with his face turned. In the sunlight he looked younger than he had the night before. She felt an urge to kiss him, to touch him again, to become a huntress and a wolf-woman too. Sitting up, she tentatively rested her head on his back while he drank, the tickling of his hair on her cheeks not unpleasant. He turned and passed her the water. His eyes roamed while she drank, until they found hers. She smiled at him, and he coughed.

Niënor froze. _Mother_!

She jumped to her feet, hastily putting her clothes back on. What was she doing, when Morwen was waiting for her? She saw him do the same with the corner of her eye, and felt his gaze on her.

 “I’m sorry,” she said, frantic, “I forgot I have no time, I have someone waiting for me, I have to go, I should not have, I mean, I don’t have _time_...”

He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

 “You are not far. But I imagine your grandmother must be worried.” He offered her the basket and the waterskin, then slung the wineskin over her shoulder, then stopped and, still a bit flushed in the morning cold, looked straight into her eyes, his ungloved hand coming up her cheek to brush what might have been a tear. It was the second time she cried in front of him, but she couldn’t seem to hate herself for it. “Forgive me, I can’t seem to find the words to say. I wish I could go further and deliver you safely to your kin, but I fear men like me are not welcome in Brethil - for good reason.”

 “No matter,” she assured him, swallowing, “I can handle myself.”

He flashed her a smile, and she thought, _Ah!_. He threw her cloak around her shoulders and buckled it for her, and she grasped his hand before it fell to his side.

 “What is your name?”

 “Neithan,” he answered promptly. _The wronged_ . Did he speak the elven-tongue? Could it be a coincidence? _His mother might have suffered as much as mine_. “May I ask yours now?”

She tip-toed and kissed him on the lips, wanting nothing more than to tell him the truth.

 “Call me Thurin.” _Secret_. She saw his smile turn into a frown, but she turned and left. Niënor had no time to wonder if he understood the meaning of that foreign word or not, or if she would ever meet him again. Her kin needed her, and she had to make haste.

Onwards she went. To Brethil, then to Doriath.

To find her brother.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to my betas K and K!!! You're angels!!


End file.
